


Of Salvation

by elianaredfield



Category: Heroes (TV)
Genre: Angst, F/F, Incest, Is this even twincest since they're both technically adopted?, Romance, Twincest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-19
Updated: 2015-02-19
Packaged: 2018-03-13 18:34:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,465
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3391982
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elianaredfield/pseuds/elianaredfield
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You grit your teeth and you wonder if they’ll crumble, “You’ve never given me a chance, Nicole.  You’ve never listened.  I was always the devil to you.  But Lucifer fell from heaven, remember.  He was an angel first.”   </p><p>//Mohinder accidentally separates Jessica and Niki into two individual bodies.  A constellation of emotional turmoil ensues.//</p>
            </blockquote>





	Of Salvation

**Author's Note:**

> Written in a 2 a.m. flurry of emotions brought on by rewatching Season 2 of Heroes. Takes place after D.L.'s death, but when Niki seeks help from Mohinder and Bob Bishop, instead of losing her abilities, she and Jessica are split into two separate people instead.

**I.**

 “I’m not a fucking monster, you know.”

 Niki is standing, arms crossed, head down, refusing to look at you.  But you can see her profile in the mirror, and it feels strange to be seeing it from outside of the glass.  Mohinder’s attempt to rid your consciousness from Niki’s had succeeded, in a way.  But you’d split into two, two different people, finally separate.  Two bodies.  No longer Niki _and_ Jessica.  Just Niki and Jessica. You’re still getting used to the feeling of having your own skin, even if it does look like Niki’s.

 “You’ve killed too many people to count---”

 You cut her off, tone sharp like a knife or a shard of ice, “To protect you.”

 “There were better ways!  You put my family in danger,” Niki finally looks up at you, and her blue eyes are the color of steel or the sea right before a hurricane.  You rise to your feet, and surely your own eyes match.  You walk over to stand in front of her, gripping her biceps, forcing her attention to focus on you as your fingers press into her flesh, not nearly hard enough to paint bruises, but enough she surely knows you mean business.

 You grit your teeth and you wonder if they’ll crumble, “You’ve never given me a chance, Nicole.  You’ve never listened.  I was always the devil to you.  But Lucifer fell from heaven, remember.  He was an angel first.”

 The obscure reference to the Bible catches Niki off guard.  You can see it in the way her eyebrows shift downwards.  She doesn’t speak, so you continue, “I didn’t slip and hit my head on the tub and drown.  Hal held me under.  Our father killed me.  Did you really think all of my bumps and bruises were from falling off my bike?”

 “What?  Jessica...that can’t...why didn’t you...” Her skin is growing pale.  You know what you tell her next will cover her in wounds like a rose garden in winter.  But she has to know.  You have to let her know.

 It’s a secret you’ve kept for far too long.  A sigh, and, “I woke up.  Inside of your body.  I was part of you.  And with me gone, the abuse he’d hidden from you wasn’t a secret anymore.  I was dead.  Mom was dead.  You were the target.  So when he came home drunk, I took over.  I took it for you.   _Every fucking time_.  Then I put memories in your head, explanations for the bruises.  I’ve always protected you.  When you were 16, you went to a party.  Remember that?  You talked to that boy you really liked all night, and you couldn’t figure out why he never spoke to you again afterwards.  He gave you a drink he’d drugged.  He was ripping off your clothes so I fought through the roofies and beat the shit out of him then took your body home.  When you gave birth to Micah, DL wasn’t the only one holding your hand.  I’ve always protected you.  It’s always been you.”

 Niki is staring at you, shocked, mouth parted, gasping in air like you’ve stabbed her in the chest.  You release her arms, step back, turn your head away.  You think you hear her sob.  You hate to know you’ve made her cry.

 “Why?” She whispers, brittle like dry sand.

 You laugh.  It’s arsenic in your throat, “You’re so damn oblivious, aren’t you?”

 When you look up, she’s wiping her eyes, smearing her mascara.  You want to hold her.  You don’t even offer her a tissue.  Her voice is thick when she asks, “What does that mean?”

 “You’re a smart girl.  You’ll figure it out.”

 You walk out of the room and close the door behind you.

 

**II.**

 

 You’re on the couch, knives spread on the coffee table, a whetstone in your hand so you can sharpen the blades.  Niki is at the store, and Micah is in his room, taking apart a computer so he can build a better one.  It’s better this way, to sharpen them while Niki isn’t home.  She always eyes the knives like she’s afraid you’re going to throw them at her like some haphazard carnival magician.

 She’s been quiet in the three days since you told her the truth.  She won’t look at you.  She even smiles at Micah less.  You feel heavy with guilt, like it’s crushing you.  You hadn’t intended to tell her.  But hearing that voice tell you constantly that you’re a demon, a monster, a wicked, vicious thing...it’s exhausting.  And it bruises whatever cluttered emotions you have left.

 You love her.  You’ve loved her since you first woke up inside of her head.  You’ve loved her since the first time her thoughts wound around you, warm and smelling of honey.  You’ve loved her since the first time you took a punch for her and realized that remembering her laughter made it hurt less.

 You’ve loved her longer than you can remember.

 “Are you okay?”

 The voice startles you so badly that the knife slips off the whetstone.  The blade catches your thumb, beckoning forth pain and petals of blood.  You’re thankful that it’s sharp, because the pain is a dull throb in the rhythm of your heartbeat, rather than lightning.  You bite your lip and squeeze your other fingers into a fist around your thumb, trying to staunch the bleeding.

 Micah is in front of you.  His eyes are wide, and he stares at your hand, “I didn’t mean to scare you.”  

 At not-quite-twelve years old, he’s still afraid of being reprimanded.  You simply give him a small smile, a tiny shake of your head, “It’s okay, buddy.  Just a scratch.  I’ll be over it soon.”  

 You hope your voice sounds soothing.  You’ve always considered him your son.  Yours and Niki’s son.  Absently, you wonder if he knows that.

 “Well, besides the cut, are you okay?  You looked upset,” Micah sits in the armchair across from you, the weary upholstery protesting.  You make a note to buy new furniture.  You wonder if Niki will hate it just because it’s your selection.

 You nod, smile again, working hard to make it convincing and warm like a hearthfire, “I’m fine.”

 There’s a lapse of silence, where Micah plays with a string on his sleeve, and you watch blood drip between your fingers.  It’s beautiful, in a morbid sort of way.  A crimson spiderweb.  But you feel far more like the fly that’s trapped in it.

 Micah swallows thickly, and you realize he’s watching a tiny red bead travel over the knuckle of your finger like it’s a mountain.  He doesn’t tear his eyes away, but his voice is soft, a question you’re not sure he’s aware he’s vocalized, “Is it about mom?”

 “I’m fine,” You repeat, a little more emphatically.  It sounds almost like anger.  You reach out to touch him in apology for snapping, then remember that you’re not exactly in the best state to be touching anyone.  You return to holding your dripping hand over your lap.

 Micah finally looks up again.  Dark eyes meet yours.  You forget he’s a child.  He looks older.  There are battles fought in those eyes that make him much wiser than eleven, the loss of his father and his friends and his normal life clinging to him like ghosts.  He studies your face as though you’re just a piece of the technology he can control with a touch, “I know that you like... _like_ her.”

 You jump like you’ve been shot.  And you nearly rise to your feet.  Panic fills your chest, hot like a flame.  You feel your heart punch you in the roof of your mouth.  You wonder if the fact that he knows means that Niki does.  Instead of voicing these things, you force your voice to tremble only slightly when you ask, “What?”

 Very intelligent, Jessica.

 “I just know.  You look at her the way my dad used to,” Micah says, matter of fact.  He reaches out, awkwardly squeezing your knee in  a clumsy rendition of comfort, “I think she’s just scared, you know?  You were her sister then you died and then you came back as part of her brain and now you’re alive again.  So she’s scared.  I mean, I don’t know if she’ll ever _like_ you, but I think soon she’ll, well, normal like you.”

 With that, he leaves, as though this isn’t a big deal.

 The words feel comforting like a warm blanket, but at the same time, they feel like someone snatching the blanket away just before you’re finally done shivering.

 Your thumb drips blood on the floor.

 

**III.**

 

 “I like this song.”

 Niki’s voice is barely audible over the Britney Spears you have blasting in the kitchen.  Micah is at a friend’s, and you’re not afraid of any potentially difficult to explain lyrics he could ask about.  You like this freedom, having your own body to choose music and dance to it in ways you never have before.  You like being separate from Niki because sometimes her 80’s rock grates on you and makes you want to shoot yourself in the forehead.

 But then there are those words, and you turn, quirking an eyebrow at her, “You do?”  She nods, leaning against the kitchen table.  Her arms are crossed over her chest, like always.  They never uncross around you, and it’s a clear gesture warding you off.  She’s protecting herself from you.  But they’re looser than usual.  You take it as a good sign.  Like a wolf, you grin at her, and twirl in a sad attempt at a pirouette as you sing out in a voice loud and gruff but not really all that bad, “ _Oops, I did it again.  I played with your heart, got lost in the game..._ ”

 Niki’s voice takes over yours, “ _Oops, you think I’m in love, that I’m sent from above..._ ”

 And together you belt out a single line, your voices somehow different despite how similar the rest of you is, “ _I’m not that innocent._ ”

 The music keeps playing, but you can’t help it.  You start to laugh, and somehow, so does she.  It’s tiny giggles at first, but the laughter builds like snow piling on top of itself, and soon you’re both laughing so hard it hurts.  It’s not even that funny, and you wonder if you’re hysterical or if there’s some sort of gas leak.  But you laugh until your eyes drip tears that burn your cheeks, and Niki ends up rubbing her sides in an attempt to ease the fresh soreness making a home in her muscles.

 “I never would have placed you as the Britney Spears type,” She says, when you both finally calm down.

 You bite your lower lip, shrug, and counter, “I’d say the same to you, but, well, you’re a stripper, so...”

 A dish towel hits you square in the face.  You stare at her in shock, mouth agape, and she starts to laugh again.  Once more, you join her, after whipping the towel back and hitting her in the chest with it.

 Maybe it is a gas leak causing the laughter.  Maybe Micah will come home and find you both dead from inhaling it all night.

 But you’re laughing with Niki, something you haven’t done since you were Micah’s age.

 And you can’t help but noticed her arms are uncrossed and hanging loosely at her sides.

 

**IV.**

 

 The air conditioning is broken, and your skin is sticky with sweat.  But that’s not the only reason.  No, the real reason is in front of you, in the living room with the furniture all pushed against the walls.  Niki, in a sports bra and shorts, flesh shining, chest heaving.  She’d asked you to teach her how to fight.  And she’s an excellent student.  She’s already memorizing you, predicting your motions and working out counters.  It’s impressive.  

 You’re trying not to stare too hard at the cleavage revealed by her sports bra.  You’re trying not to let your eyes trace the span of those perfect abs, the quivering brilliance of her calf muscles.  You try not to focus on the way her lips part to allow her to breath better.  But everything about her is driving you crazy.  And as a line of sweat drips down her neck, you can’t help but follow it.

 The distraction is her perfect window.  She punches you, square in the jaw.  It’s an rattling blow even without the super strength.  But with it, it knocks your head to the side and sends you sprawling on your back on the floor.  You see fireworks even though it’s only June.  You blink up at the ceiling, trying to realign your vision.  You hear her curse and she rushes to your side.  It’s disorienting to see three fuzzy images of her staring down at you.  They look like television static.

 After a moment, the three Nikis all combine into one, and you sit up slowly, cradling your jaw.  It whimpers and protests.  You grin anyway, “Holy shit.  Blondie isn’t so weak after all.”

 You think you see her chest swell with pride.  Just that makes the bruise you can feel crawling through layers of skin worth it.  Then, suddenly, Niki leans forward, pressing a quick kiss to the injury.  When she pulls away, her face is bright red, and she scrambles to her feet, mumbling something about taking a shower.

 You feel her lips on your skin long after the pain from the bruise fades into oblivion.

 

**V.**

 

 You come home with blood on your face and tremors in your fingers.  Usually, assignments don’t hit you this hard.  You aren’t even sure what it is, but this time, something hadn’t felt right.  You’re strong, you’re made out of titanium or steel or iron.  You’re unbreakable.  But when you set your gun on the bathroom counter and look in the mirror at the blood splattered on your face, bile rises in your throat.  It burns like every circle of hell when you swallow it down.

 You know what it is, deep down.  It’s the child-scribbled drawings on the refrigerator that you can still see in your mind.  It’s the family portrait that was on the wall.  As you remember it, the picture distorts.  The woman you killed grows pale and translucent, like a ghost.  Her son and her husband remain, but their eyes grow cold.  They scream at you.  They ask you why.

 You climb into the shower, fully clothed, and turn the water up so hot it scalds your skin.

 Niki finds you there, shuddering and staring at the wall.  You think she says your name, but you aren’t sure.  But, distantly, your mostly-numb skin registers the water temperature shifting to something less abusive.  You feel a new warmth.  She settles in the shower next to you, also fully clothed.  Her arms wrap around you, and you fight it, feeling guilty, feeling tainted, feeling like poison.

 The face of the woman you killed transforms into Niki’s.

 You close your eyes and you collapse into her, apologizing as though it will rid you of your sins.  You want to promise never to hurt her, but the words don’t come.

 Niki holds you close and kisses the top of your head, and you try to find salvation in it.

 

**VI.**

 

“This is wrong, this is wrong, this is so wrong.”

 Niki is chanting the words like a prayer.  She’s pacing in front of the bed you sit on, hands in her hair.  You feel sick watching her walk back and forth.  You wonder if praying is exactly what she’s doing.  Praying for your poor lost soul.  You want to look away, but you can’t.  You want to bite your tongue off for betraying you and telling her about your feelings, but your jaw feels like jelly.

 After another minute or two of her passing, you snap, “I know it’s wrong.  I _get it_ , okay?  I fucking get it.  You don’t have to keep saying it.”

 She stops pacing.  Her back is turned to you, shoulderblades fanning out like angel wings.  You want to cry.  Instead, you rise to your feet.  You lock your spine into place, forcing yourself to stay steady.  You’re not a weak little girl.  You’re a queen, the strongest piece on the chessboard.  You’re too old to let rejection kill you.

 But you’re young enough to feel like it’s a knife caught between your ribs.  You’re young enough to swell with agony every time you breathe.

 “Do you want me to go?” You ask.  You don’t know what you mean by ‘go’.  A night?  A week?  Forever?  You guess she’ll probably decide the amount of time.

 She turns to face you, and you expect rejection.  You expect an ultimatum.  You expect her voice telling you that you have an hour to pack your things, say goodbye to Micah, and leave and never come back.  You start forming a plan of action, compiling a list of places you could stay.

 Then she speaks a single word that takes your entire world and turns it upside down.  You feel gravity shift.

 “No.”

 And in an instant that feels like everything, she’s knotting her fists in the front of a shirt that actually belongs to her.  She’s pulling you in, and when your lips meet, it feels like the end of the world and the beginning of it.  You wrap your hands around her back and pull her close.  She tastes like mint toothpaste and the heaven God never gave you.  Or maybe he did give it to you, and it just took a long time for you to find it.

 Because god, if her lips don’t make you hear goddamn choirs of angels.

 

**VII.**

 

 Micah is sitting across from you and Niki.  She’s tense, muscles so tight you worry the tendons will snap.  Her hand is entangled with yours, and you feel like she’s turning your bones to powder.  But you squeeze back (less forcefully, of course), offering comfort.  You’re surprised she wanted to tell him at all, especially after only a month of kisses shared in the safety of child-free schooldays or behind the sanctuary of a closed door.

 “So you two are dating,” He says, to clarify.  You hate that you can’t read his expression.

 Weakly, you nod.  Micah purses his lips, tilts his head as though he’s thinking.  Then he asks, “Are you guys gonna be like the lesbians on TV and get lots of rainbow flags and talk about lesbian power and eat only vegan food?”

 Niki shakes her head in disbelief.  You aren’t sure if it’s because of his question or his reaction in general.  Her voice is slightly high pitched, “ _What_?”

 “Do you never watch TV, Mom?” Micah asks, a tone of sass that you’re supposed to get on to him for but find too funny to do anything about.

 With the hand not holding Niki’s, you reach out and ruffle his hair.  Your lips crack into a signature grin, one that looks like it would be more fitting on the lips of a lioness in the middle of the hunt, “Nah.  But we will _gratuitously_ make out in front of you all the time so you don’t forget that we’re together.”

 You lean in to press a long, a-little-more-than-PG-rated kiss to Niki’s lips, and Micah let’s out a horrified shout and leaps to his feet, running out of the room and to a safe place free of his mom and his mom’s once-dead-adopted-sister-slash-former-alter-ego-now-human making out in front of him.  You laugh, and Niki laughs too, obviously relieved that Micah obviously isn’t too negatively affected by the development.

 That night, you and Niki are in bed.  You’re a collection of bare skin and harsh breaths, and your hand is between her thighs.  With each motion of your fingers you’re discovering that all of that time trapped in her subconscious has come in handy after all, and judging by the way her teeth are clamping down on the pillows and her nails are carving half moons in your back, Niki fully agrees.

 After she finds her release and shudders against you and gasps your name like you’re the only god she’ll ever worship, you pull her into your arms.  She fits perfectly, and you press your lips to her forehead in a way you never thought you’d be able to.  You’re Jessica Sanders, so you don’t cry.  But you come close.

 “I love you,” you whisper, and it sounds like everything.

 There’s a span of three heartbeats as she pulls you closer.  Her head settles against your sternum and she breathes out, “I love you too.”

 You close your eyes and realize that nothing has ever sounded more beautiful.


End file.
